Not quite therapy, but it works
by I'm Nova
Summary: For my dearest TapTapAlways, a story where John fixes all s4 well before the worst happens, with a single bullet. And he doesn't even know.


_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. Not even the idea since it was inspired by my dearest TapTapAlways, who wanted a fixit where John solved the Eurus problem. I'm assuming he started going to therapy before the whole Culverton clusterfuck happened, by the way, so that never happened too – not the way that makes me ill at least (always suspected Eurus' therapy had something to do with John's reaction)._

Not quite therapy, but it works

John felt especially pathetic, looking for a new therapist. But a new one there would have to be, there was no way that he would go back to Ella to cope with his new grief. Because she'd seen him before. After Sherlock. He'd been a complete wreck. And as much as he'd always refused to say, he was afraid that she had a clear idea of what he wished he could have said to him. What he ended up never saying all the same because the fucking universe broke pattern and the world's only consulting detective decided to be the most supportive friend for his new relationship instead of, you know, the nuisance that broke it off.

It would have been hard to find an excuse to dump Mary when fear of dying alone had already made him buy a ring before Sherlock showed up, and they all seemed to be so happy for each other. Even after Mary shot him, and somehow nobody batted an eye or remembered that Sherlock died on the fucking operating table before pulling through. How she didn't die in jail, or in one of Mycroft's holding facilities, was still a mystery deeper than any case they had solved together.

Anyway, "my wife died, and I'm not just not sorry enough, I kinda didn't even make a token attempt to save her despite being a fucking army doctor who's dealt with more bullet wounds than you have therapy hours in your career, probably, and I suspect that's a bit not good," wasn't something he could tell Ella. Nope. Especially because all she seemed to suggest was for him to voice his feelings –what with the blog, and if he hadn't been angsting about Sherlock's death (or so he thought) but, say, his move to another continent, she might have suggested that he come clean too. So nope. Another therapist. Well, there were plenty to choose from.

Calculating the radius he could comfortably move in (what with having an infant, he couldn't exactly be out all day), his preferred gender – he was finished taking orders from other men, look at the mess he always ended in when he followed someone -, his price range and another couple of details, he had a therapist picked in half an hour. Appointment booked, he still spent a while looking her up – conferences she took part in on YouTube, that old article she published on a review John subscribed to, other patients mentioning her in random chats. It was always a good idea to know what to expect, especially when he was supposed to bare his soul to the woman.

Finally the day of his first session came. Rosie was in Molly's very capable hands, bless her, and the bus stop was only about 100 yards from the therapist's practice. He was on time, and the woman smiled at him encouragingly and offered him a seat, but...there was something wrong. Something that set off all his internal alarms.

When she started to steer the conversation in a very odd way – not making the session about his feelings(or lack of them) for his late wife, but about Sherlock Holmes and his role in her death – John actually shook his head, like a wet dog, trying to toss away the idiocy of it. And then he stared at her some more. Finally, for once in his life, he observed.

The former captain blessed the frankly inadvisable habit of always carrying a gun that he could never shake off. In seconds, he was pointing it at this stranger, asking for her name.

"Are you not feeling well, John? You booked the session. You know my name," she said, inclining her head once again towards him and revealing what had tipped him off in the first place.

"Not with those ears you aren't. You have one more chance to tell me your name and what the fuck you want from me and - I assume – Sherlock, then I'll shoot," he retorted, hand unwavering and voice steely.

"Don't be hasty," she replied, mouth pulled in a disappointed line. But disappointed in whom? "Don't you want to play?"

John didn't reply this time. He just shot. Then texted Sherlock. "I know I've been an arse lately, but I kinda just murdered someone and I'd like your help in finding out whom."

The reply didn't come for ten eternal minutes, but John couldn't blame him. It was a simple, "Address? SH"

After that, the detective arrived quickly – but there was still a hesitancy in his step that John hated with a passion. After trying to keep Sherlock away, though, he could blame only himself for it. John welcomed him in, and explained immediately, "Look, I have no idea who the fuck this woman is, but she's not the therapist whose name is on the door. I looked her up. Ear lobes don't just attach themselves from a year to another – that's genetic – and what sort of madness would require plastic surgery to do that? Besides, she started talking about you, and – her wording – she sounded like Moriarty. So no, I didn't sit there and wait for her to play with us. Fuck it. I have had enough of that."

The sleuth was executing his deduction dance – and damn, John really should find another word for it, but it was hard to use neutral words when the man was so fascinating. No, no, remember why you were here, remember why you tried so hard to keep him at distance. Fuck, that ball of shame and fear and desire and not nearly enough grief was why he needed a therapist in the first place - couldn't the universe let him have one?

"She's been a convict until recently," Sherlock declared, frowning "arrogant, because she underestimated you so badly, but able to put on a superficial layer of acting well enough – might have to look her up in the criminal asylums records, I think it's our best bet. I'll just call Mycroft, both to have quicker access to her files, and to ensure that...this...is smoothed away. She was a criminal, your past has developed your instincts to recognise her type – you didn't need her waving a gun to know she was dangerous. I'm sure that once we have her records your reaction will seem fully justified."

That his friend would call – actually call, despite hating it as much as he did his overbearing brother – Mycroft for him hit John as yet another mark of that kindness the man showed only a select few, and that he didn't deserve at the very moment he counted on it.

His own self-loathing almost distracted John from Sherlock's half of the conversation. "Mycroft….yes, there's a dead body…yup, John… former convict, for sure…but…I think I might be missing something. There's just a niggling…I know, I should know better, just… you're not really on the other line with the South Koreans, you just want a quiet coffee break… get _here,_ Mycroft!"

The British Government was indeed at the door seven minutes later (which meant he'd finished his pastry, according to a grumbling sleuth). John never thought he'd see the day the man _blanched_. Who the fuck was this woman?

"How long did she talk to you?" Mycroft asked, staring at him like he'd stare at people who needed to be quarantined _stat_.

"All of three sentences, honestly. She rang false immediately, and I'm not a wannabe overlord to rant at people who might pose a threat – her choice of words made me suspect she was a Moriarty associate, so. Shoot first, check her records later. Okay, bad habit maybe but –"

"Very good habit in this particular case, I assure you. She wielded words like other people wield machine guns – quick and lethal. I'll take care of her. No one else need be involved," Mycroft replied, whipping out his mobile phone, undoubtedly to snap orders. "Out," he added, as if he hadn't been clear enough. John could have sworn to have heard him breathe, "At long last…" while they left.

Sherlock's feet dragged, leaving the office. "I assume you'll want to be back home with Rosie as soon as possible." He had such a kicked dog look that John couldn't resist.

Let's go with the advice of the therapist who wasn't actually another criminal mastermind. He was depriving himself – and Rosie – of Sherlock's company as it was. What could happen that was worse than that? "I… actually I'd like to talk to you, if you're not busy."

"Not busy! Not busy at all!" The detective seemed almost to dance while hailing a cab to take them back to Baker Street. Still, once back home he did something that he hadn't done since the first day John moved in – he attempted to straighten the sitting room, not because 'we don't have bloody space to even get to the armchairs', but to…give a good impression? To John?

The fact that he felt like he needed to was, frankly, heartbreaking. And also evidence that John needed to grow a pair and speak. "I wanted to apologise. And thank you, of course!"

Sherlock blinked, the sentence not computing. "But…apologise? But it's –"

Thank God he managed to say that out loud, so John could cut in. "Don't you dare say 'my fault'. Heck, it's mine more than yours, since I just…sat there. But actually it's that…whatever her name was and also Mary's. Who knows what she was thinking, I hope not what she actually said because no, that's not how getting even works. I need to apologise for having been a coward, because – the reason I wanted you far away from me and Rosie is – I was afraid."

"No, no, it's perfectly rational, I seem to always carry danger around me, you have a family, you can't…" The sleuth was talking a mile a minute, but also seemed slightly nauseous.

"I was afraid that you'd deduce me, you berk! Not that – well, you've seen. They can fucking try threatening you, Rosie or me – I was a captain, you know!"

Sherlock swallowed. Frowned. Stared. Stared some more. Seemed about to call Mycroft, again. "What am I missing?" he asked, finally. At least he wasn't green anymore.

"That I am not nearly as sad as I should be for a recent widower. That I put you first in the list of people I challenged anyone to try and hurt. That despite going through with the wedding, mostly because I had no idea how not to, and then Rosie…I was the least enthusiastic husband you could find in Britain. That I miss thumbs in my fridge. That I'm in love with you, even when I've never wanted to be, because you're married to your work, and it'd complicate things, and so many ands, but it's turning me into a coward and that's not what I want to be. Just turn me down again so I can make peace with it hopefully and you can do age appropriate experiments with Rosie when she's a bit older." It came out all in a rush, and John was afraid he'd either have an answer soon or start swaying. There wasn't enough oxygen in the room.

"What if…what if I don't want to turn you down?"

"Then kiss me."

Sherlock should have done so the first time John killed someone for them both without so much as blinking. He should have done that so many times. Oh well. No time like the present.


End file.
